


Detente

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Detente, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:37:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9414284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft navigate the complex waters of arranging for Sherlock to play for Eurus at Sherrinford. Both brothers must grow.





	

Mycroft's face came as a shock to Sherlock...drawn, wan, sober. Even having, finally, realized how vulnerable his older brother was, he had not expected it. 

"You're not looking after yourself properly," he said, sweeping to a halt and collapsing elegantly in the armchair in front of Mycroft's desk. He crossed one leg over, resting his ankle on the opposing knee--a posture that took up space and made him larger in this dark, cave-like chamber.

"I assure you, I'm perfectly healthy." Mycroft attempted the gothic glare--the one where he ducked his chin low and rolled his eyes up to look at Sherlock, counting on the melodramatic lighting to make him look like a skeletal zombie or a particularly ghoulish vampire. "I had a medical check-up just the other day."

"Let me guess--your colleagues forced it on you. You're scaring them."

The crimp of Mycroft's mouth and the refusal to respond told him everything he needed to know. He gave an exasperated grumble. "I'll tell Mummy."

"Oh frabjous day," Mycroft drawled in response, bitterness in every syllable. "And shall she come up to London and make me chicken soup? I don't think so. Tell me, brother-mine, what are you here for?"

"Not all communication is words."

"What?" Mycroft frowned. "Of course not. There's kinetic communication--body language, culturally recognized gestures, various forms of sign language. Pantomime. What are you getting at?"

Hmmm. Sherlock frowned--Mike was displaying an unexpected aversion to the memory of the meeting with Mummy and Father. So--yes. Mummy's tantrum had cut deeper than Sherlock had expected. He added the fact to the delicate tracery of information he was building in an entirely new room of his Mind Palace--the Revised Mycroft Room, where he was trying to salvage and reinterpret old information in light of the revelations brought by new information. He chose a delicate glass unicorn, taken from a play he'd once seen rather unwillingly--then swept it aside with a dismissive mental hand, replacing it with the very finest, lightest of eggshell porcelain tea cups--so fragile it glowed with light. To the image he attached the knowledge that Mycroft could not only be hurt--he could be hurt very badly.

How had he not realized that previously?

Not that it was the focus of today's meeting...nor did he feel safe letting Mike know he'd realized. Instead he scoffed, softly. "Do try to keep up, Mycroft. Words. There are other ways of trying to reach Eurus than words."

Mycroft, all bristles and defensive annoyance, grumbled, "What now, Sherlock? Am I to stand in front of her cell and play charades? Or shall I refrain, and simply allow Mummy and Father the raw experience of trying to mime out 'We love you'?" 

"They might be better if they stuck to pantomime," Sherlock said, snarky and amused. "But no. I want permission to perform an...experiment. But you'll have to approve me going in to Sherrinford and, um--trying something. Different."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and flopped backward in his executive chair, folding his hands over his waistcoat and glowering at his brother beneath lowered brows. "Oh, God. As if well-intentioned experiments and overly optimistic lenience isn't what got us into this mess in the first place. No, Sherlock, I will not arrange for you to go in to see Eurus. You proved more resistant to her manipulations than I would have feared..." His eyes flickered, and just as Sherlock was preparing to take offense, he revised, "Than I once would have feared... But. In any case... No. I won't let her get her teeth on you ever again." The passion behind the final words was real...soaked with rage and guilt and grief.

"You've protected me for years, Mycroft. This time--just trust me. I'm not asking you to let me in with her. I'll stay the requisite distance. I'll allow you to have eyes on me the whole time. I just want to attempt something."

"What?"

"She said she was the one who taught me the violin..."

He fell silent and watched as the entire idea blossomed in his brother's mind. He was not prepared for the pain, though--and the sense of failure. 

He added a spiderweb of crazing to the image of the porcelain cup, and the first sign of a hairline crack. Fragile. Far more fragile than it had ever occurred to him Mycroft could possibly be. How much of that was decades of being insulted, despised, and misunderstood by his younger brother? Sherlock felt guilt--a rare feeling until recently--well up and try to choke him.

And all the while Sherlock observed, Mycroft thought. Weighed risks. Considered advantages. Sought detente. At last he said, very softly, "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Don't make me repeat myself. I'm not thrilled with the decision."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll need to go in with my own."

"Of course. That or have us arrange for one to be there--and you'll play far better on your own violin. So, yes. I'll write out the approval. If you don't mind I'm going to have Lady Smallwood arrange to maintain surveillance. I'd appreciate an outsider's evaluation, as well as my own, whether we need to pull you back."

Sherlock nodded. "Fair enough. And you'll set up the flight there and back?"

"Of course."

Sherlock rose, nodded. "Good. Let me know when it's arranged." He waited for his brother to rise, then, warily, gingerly, he stepped close and offered his arms. Mycroft blinked, frowned in confusion--then just as warily allowed the embrace.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured. "I appreciate it. Now I owe you favors."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft said, stepping back, tidying himself--clearly embarrassed by both the hug and the thanks. "It's a superb idea. I only wish I had thought of it years ago--only it's not anything I could have offered her." He held out both hands and wriggled his fingers, expression ironic. "Mummy always did say I was lacking more talents than she could list."

"Mummy says things she should be hanged for." Sherlock gave a wry grin. "I know--I think I got it from her."

It was an apology of sorts, he thought, as a small, grateful smile bloomed in his brother's eyes. He'd have to work on it and see if he could get that smile all the way to Mycroft's mouth... But in the meantime...

"Well. I'm off, now. Builders coming to replace most of the floor at Baker Street."

"No doubt a pressing concern," Mycroft said, walking him to the door. He opened it, then met Sherlock's eyes. "Thank you," he said, with unadorned simplicity. "It is a good idea." And then he moved subtly, encouraging Sherlock to exit...and closed the door as soon as he could.

Sherlock looked at Anthea. She looked back, face bland and creamy. "Keep an eye on him," he told her, firmly.

"I always have," she said, voice reminding him that she'd been more faithful and vigilant than he had.

"So you have," he agreed--and swanned off, his task attended to.


End file.
